Okay so this is the NEW Chapter One of Wings - to those of you who read the old first chapter, that old first chapter is now the second chapter.
Hope that's not too confusing.__________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter One
Morrow - Wednesday, early A.M.
Morrow - Wednesday, early A.M.
Teenagers have no conscience. This is the conclusion I have come to. It’s why they drive recklessly and/or drunk, and don’t use condoms. It’s not because they think they’re invincible; just because they have no little voice in their head telling them right and wrong.
When women grow up, they get their conscience, I think, around eighteen to twenty. Maybe more, depending on the person. Men, on the other hand, never get one. And I have had three husbands prove it.
Sometimes I feel like Jennifer Aniston. You know, “unlucky in love.” Not that I’m a hot blond chick, because I am so not, it's just that I’m always the one who’s lonely.
I’ve learned men are awful company. A job is better. Focus on that, and your mind never wanders. That’s the only reason I’m still in the office at 1 a.m. on a Friday night; to hide from the fact that I’m still only going to go home to an apartment inhabited by me and Milo; to hide the fact that one half of my closet is empty; to hide the fact my king size bed is only slept in by me and a cat… but I, of all people, should know – you can’t run from the truth. It’ll eventually catch you and eat you up.
Lenny, the intern, walks down the hall around 1:20 when she notices the open door to my office and walks in. “Good God, Morrow, what are you still doing here?”
I look at her, sleep deprived and with a coffee buzz that’s wearing off quicker than I can replace it, and say the truth, “I have absolutely no idea.”
“You need to get home. And get some rest. They don’t pay very much for overtime, you know.” As she talks, she walks across the hall to the copy room to grab some printed pages.
“Well, I…”
“You what?” She comes back in, holding a sheaf of freshly printed paper. I absolutely love paper like that. I don’t know why; something about the smell of ink always gets me. I know, weird.
“I’m still piecing together evidence from the Moony case.” I ignore that this completely contradicts what I said a moment ago.
“That went to court last week.”
Crap. “Well, I’m finalizing it all…”
“Brytt’s been working on it. Come on Morrow. If you’re not gone in 20 minutes, I will personally kick you out.” It's impossible to argue with people who are trained to know when someone is lying.
I give her a sad smile. “You wish you could.”
Right about then, the phone rings. I jump for it, thrilled to have an excuse to stay here and escape this conversation. “Hello, you’ve reached the Los Angeles County police department. Morrow Pike speaking.”
After a long time on the job, you can tell what someone’s emergency is by listening to their tone of voice. The woman on the other end of the line is talking way too fast and is a step away from hyperventilating. I’m guessing she’s a mother, and they always freak about everything, so most of the time it's hard to guess their specific ordeal.
“Ma’am,” I say. “I know you’re worried, but you need to slow down and start from the beginning so I can help you.” I pull out a yellow-lined legal pad and my favorite pen, preparing to write.
She takes a deep breath. “It’s my teenage daughter. She’s missing.”
I rub the corners of my eyes. I hate cases with teenagers. Because you almost always find drugs involved, and you have to be the one to tell the parent their son or daughter is not the person they think they are. “When did you first notice she was gone?”
“Within the last half hour.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“I don’t know… since lunchtime, maybe?”
“Well ma’am, you know only after 24 hours are they considered a missing person.”
“I know, but my daughter… she’s not a normal person.”
“I’m sure she’s special to you. But teenagers often do things – like miss curfew, and that doesn’t qualify as a missing person. You know, hormones and all that.”
“Yes, she’s special to me, but that’s not what I mean… can I ask you a question?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, expecting she’ll ask me if I have kids, then give the whole schpiel about how the girl is her life, yada yada yada.
“Are you alone?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t have any children, but – what?”
She repeats her question. “Are you alone?”
I clear my throat. “Well, I’m alone in this room, but not at the station.”
“Is anyone nearby that could hear this conversation?” Every question she’s asking is giving me a very bad feeling.
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Um… yes?”
“Well, it’s just… my daughter is Kestrel Reid.”
The phone falls out of my hand. “Sh*t,” I mutter, then quickly regain my composure. “Is this a prank call? I could have you arrested, you know.” I couldn’t really, but it’s a foolproof threat.
“Boy, wouldn’t that make news – Kestrel Reid’s mother arrested. I am really her mom, and she really is gone.”
Like I haven’t heard that before. Still, I open the internet browser on my computer and wait for it to load so I can trace the call.
When it comes to the home page – MSN – I freeze. The title of the headline: 'Where is Kestrel Reid?'
“Ma’am,” I whisper as I click on it. “I’ll be right over.”
“Thank you!” she says, then begins crying in relief. I hang up and begin to read the article.
The Oscars – something no star wants to miss. Particularly, one well
on her way to superstardom. Which leaves one question: where was Kestrel
Reid tonight?
The popular ABC TV show she stars in, My Life in Sticks, won the award
for best new comedy. But she wasn’t there to receive the award.
According to director Lane Hodges, she skipped rehearsal today.
Is it a case of teenage hormones gone wild? A hangover? Or some-
thing more?
Right now, only one person knows, and that is Kestrel herself.
Please check back soon; new information will be posted as it is
discovered.
on her way to superstardom. Which leaves one question: where was Kestrel
Reid tonight?
The popular ABC TV show she stars in, My Life in Sticks, won the award
for best new comedy. But she wasn’t there to receive the award.
According to director Lane Hodges, she skipped rehearsal today.
Is it a case of teenage hormones gone wild? A hangover? Or some-
thing more?
Right now, only one person knows, and that is Kestrel herself.
Please check back soon; new information will be posted as it is
discovered.
Oh my God, I think. This is real.
I grab my coat off the back of my chair and slip on the low purple heels I’d kicked under my desk. “Lenny!” I yell as I scoop up my purse and yank out my keys. “Man my station for me, will ya? I got a call!”
“You bet!” she yells, but by then I’m already slamming the door to the station behind me.
My cruiser moans when it starts up, same as usual, but I take advantage of the stalling to program the address into my GPS.
I reach the road the house is on in about 5 minutes flat, which is a complete shock because this is L.A. and sometimes it takes that long just to get out of the parking lot.
Right then, some idiot driver pulls too fast out of a side road. I flash my lights as a warning and debate whether or not to go after him, then decide the case is more important right now.
Not more than ten seconds later, another car pulls out in front of me.
“Sh*t!” I yell, banging my fist on the steering wheel. Stupid drivers.
I decide then that okay, enough is enough, and I turn on my lights and siren and take off through the traffic toward the house.
The closer I get, the worse the cars are. It’s like a madhouse, and none of them even move over for me. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could take mental pictures of all these license plates? At this rate, they could all be getting tickets and have to pay more than most mortgage payments.
I stomp on the gas and weave in and out of the cars, finally getting close. I end up stopping about a block away and sprinting the rest of the way – the traffic is that bad. Instantly I curse myself for not wearing shoes I could run in.
I reach the house and freeze. There is a blonde-haired figure in the middle of the yard holding a gun straight up in the air. Right then she sees me, and drops the pistol.
“Hands up!” I yell, yanking my tazer (ooh, fun!) out of its holster and running low across the street. “On the ground!”
She obeys, too quickly for a real criminal. By the time I’m there, she’s already on the ground with her hands behind her head. I pause, surprised and yet pleased by the fact I no longer have to force around the convicts and felons to get them to do what I want.
I snap the handcuffs around her wrists and put a knee into her back as I begin to rattle off Miranda.
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^^This chapter's almost done; I just want to know what you guys think of it so far.
^^
